Chapter 32: CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
February 24 to May 19, 1990.
When Layne and I return home, we immediately remove our (beautiful but uncomfortable) shoes, and Layne dances with me despite the lack of music.
“You helped us raise a lot of money tonight, baby,” he says as he spins me.
“Happy to help. I had no idea how much watching you make rich people spend their precious pennies would turn me on.”
“If I’d known that, I would have brought you to an event sooner.”
I kiss him, and it’s immediately hot. His lips part, and our tongues lure each other. His hands caress my shoulders and slowly move down my chest until he slips them under my strapless dress and bra. The fabric stretches tightly around him as he plays with my nipples without breaking our kiss.
I unbutton his jacket, then pull at his tie until it unravels. My fingers begin fondling his shirt buttons, but he pinches my nipples, and I have to pause my pursuit and our kiss. “Fuck.”
This only encourages him, and my nipples grow hand under his teasing fingers.
I regain enough control to finish unbuttoning his shirt, then his slacks.
Finally, he removes his hands so that he can shed his top layers, and the living room becomes a pile of dry-cleaner-only laundry.
He runs his hands down my sides and around my dress, but when his fingers arrive at my well-hidden zipper, I stop him with a wicked smile. “I want you to make love to me in the dress.”
He laughs and kisses me.
“Too weird?”
“For you, baby, nothing is too weird.”
He kneels and slowly runs his hands up my calves and thighs. When he arrives at my bikini-cut panties, he wraps his thumbs in the elastic and pulls. His fingers graze my inner thighs, and when the lace falls, he places his head under my dress.
His tongue flicks my clit, and I almost fall.
I reach behind me and hold onto the entertainment center so that my knees don’t buckle on top of him.
It takes almost no time for me to release loud moans, and my legs shake. He returns from under my dress.
“Take off your pants,” I command breathlessly.
He chuckles at my decisiveness, and when he’s only in his boxer-briefs, I say, “No condoms tonight.”
He furrows his brow. “We’re out?”
“No. I want us to try for a baby.”
His jaw falls open. “You’re serious?”
I pull him near me, and we position ourselves for another dance. “Seeing you on stage, making people do the right thing… You’re going to be a great dad, Layne, and I want to have your baby.”
“What about the dilemma between traveling or having kids?”
“You’re a two zillionaire. We can do both.”
He chuckles. “What about sleeping late on the weekends?”
“We’ll let them stay up late on Friday, so we can all sleep late.”
He stares into my eyes. “You really want to do this?”
“I really do. Let’s just… let it happen.”
He dances me to the bedroom, and when I lie down, he places pillows beneath my hips. With him entirely naked, and me still in my dress and jewelry, he kisses my neck, lips, cheek, and shoulders.
“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, “with or without the expensive clothes.”
Our fervent kiss creates swirling colors in my brain as he lifts my dress to my hips and thrusts himself inside of me.
I’ve never had sex without a condom.
It’s exhilarating, and the fact that it’s with Layne makes it even hotter. We’re completely connected, as close as two people can be to becoming one person.
His eyes shine, mirroring my emotions.
We silently answer each other’s questions, and his thrusts are powerful, deliberate, and purposeful.
I run my fingertips down his back, and he kisses me passionately.
When I feel the wave come, I fight the urge to press my hips down, and instead, I raise them higher, giving him a better angle as I moan and dig my nails into his back and hips.
His movements quicken, and he grips the sheets around me when he groans.
When he collapses, he bites my shoulder, and I wrap my legs around his hips. pressing my heels against him–wanting to take every inch.
“Fuck,” he says, removing his teeth from my skin, “that was hot, baby.”
“Did the expensive clothes make it hotter?”
His lips graze mine. “Making a baby with you made it hotter.” He simpers. “But the clothes helped.”
“In nine months, we could be parents, Layne.”
He gives me quick, sweet kisses. “You’ll make a great mom.”
***
We’re lazier during the spring semester. Not quite as many trips or adventure dates. We enjoy spending our time curled up watching movies and making love that might make us parents.
But when Layne finishes the semester, he’s itching to take another trip. Somehow, he found a woman in Los Angeles who’s a floral artist. Apparently, Layne has very specific ideas about flowers at our wedding.
LFI recently opened a satellite site in LA, and Ra’Shelle’s stepmother and two half-sisters live in San Diego, so Ra’Shelle’s family joins us, and she and I work for a day before beginning our (very different) vacations.
Layne did not explain the concept of floral art well. I thought he meant someone arranging my bouquet and possibly putting a few flowers on the guests’ tables.
When I walk into the studio, I cough from the shock of all the floral scents, and I stare at installations that are taller than me. Layne made an appointment, and a sepia-skinned woman wearing a flowing, floral dress approaches us with cucumber water.
Ah, Los Angeles.
I walk around the space while Layne discusses his ideas.
“Sam, come look at photo albums!” Layne calls, grinning.
“Holy shit. That’s a lot of photos, baby.”
“And these are just from weddings she did,” he says proudly.
They’re all gorgeous, but I find myself surprisingly picky. “No roses. No peppermint carnations. Nothing red. Nothing with thorns.”
I sound demanding, but no one seems bothered. “It’s great that you’re getting into wedding planning,” Layne says.
But that’s not it. The more we look at the pictures, the more remnants of a memory piece themselves together. An ex who broke my heart. Rose petals disturbingly red against the white snow. My hands made bloody from dozens of thorn pricks and scratches.
Oh, right. That.
I shake the memory from my mind.
We take a break for lunch, and when we return, we finally make choices that the woman scribbles in a notebook.
Purple anemone and white gardenias for my bouquet and the bridesmaids’ bouquets.
Birds of paradise and complementary flowers on all of the banquet tables.
A wedding arch made of sunflowers, carnations, and a ridiculous amount of greenery. (This is the first time Layne’s mentioned a floral wedding arch.)
A flower installation, for which we give the artist complete control, will be placed just inside the door.
Any petals that fall off while she’s creating all the decorations will become the petals for Tina and Alex to carry.
“I don’t even own a plant,” I tell Layne when we leave. My thumb is the opposite of green. You’ve bought me… two bouquets ever? How did you just spend thousands of dollars on flowers?”
“It’s not ‘just’ flowers,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist. It’s beauty and optimism. It adds exuberant color to an otherwise contemporary affair. Plus, I’m a patron of the arts. Helping an independent artist do what she loves? Why wouldn’t I want to do that?”
That’s my man.
The moment I start judging him for being frivolous or self-obsessed is the moment he reminds me of just how giving he really is.
I couldn’t ask for anyone better.
“What’s next?” I ask, taking his arm.
“Sightseeing. Dinner. Usual vacation stuff.”
“What’s next for wedding planning?”
“Oh.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Tux shopping.”
“Why the anxiety?”
“I’m going to have to ask Paul to be my best man.”
“Darren’s words stayed with you?”
He chuckles. “Gotta love teenagers.”
“If you didn’t ask Paul, who would you ask instead?”
“I’ve gotten close to a professor in the history department,” he says. “He was already a professor when I was a TA, so we didn’t talk much, but now that we’re equals, we’ve been grabbing lunch and bonding.”
“Maybe introduce them.”
“Layne and Javier? I did that. It was not a good night. Javier asked me to not do it again. If they’re both groomsmen, their dynamic will overshadow our day.”
I lean closer. “It is our day.”
“Yes, it is, baby.” He rubs my shoulder. “Anyway, it’s one or the other.”
“If you have a big fight with Paul, would you tell Javier?”
“Maybe… Probably.”
“If you had a big fight with Javier, would you tell Paul?”
“Definitely not.”
“Maybe that’s your answer.”
We walk for several minutes, commenting on merchandise in the shop windows. Finally, he says, “I have to invite Paul. He’s my oldest friend, and it’d kill him if he wasn’t a groomsman. Javier knows I care about him. He’ll be okay with it.”
“Final decision?”
“Final decision.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get some grub.”
I’ve spent very little time with Paul, and I’ve never met Javier, but after reading Layne’s body language… This is the first time I’ve ever questioned if he made the right choice.